Holmes Revisited
by LizzyCarlton
Summary: Brideshead Revisited: Mystrade style. Mycroft and Gregory meet at Oxford University. Friendship blossoms; then something more. The year is 1923.
1. Chapter 1

**Holmes Revisited **

_Disclaimer: This work is based upon the Evelyn Waugh novel, Brideshead Revisited. Whilst any wording lifted directly has been rephrased, please note this is essentially a parody, I am not trying to pass it off as my own._

_Characters property of Mr Mark Gatiss, Mr Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The Holmes Estate was not entirely new to me. I had been there before; first with Mycroft more than twenty-five years ago on a cloudless day in June, when the air was heavy with all the scents of summer. It was a strange day, and whilst by now I have visited often, under more extraordinary circumstances, it is that first visit which remains imprinted upon my memory. The year was 1923.

As was so often the case with Mycroft, I had at first been unaware of my destination. I merely followed at his request (as I often did); compelled by a growing awe for the enigmatic man who was so charmingly determined to keep my acquaintance.

It was a less than peaceful morning that day. The halls beyond my room were buzzing with activity; the college was, rather distressingly, hosting a ball that evening. The echoing fuss was inescapable, and so I remained swathed in my towelled dressing gown, resigned to a day of interrupted study.

Mycroft entered unexpected, resplendent in dove-grey flannel, a white silk shirt and a royal blue tie. My own as it happened. I had not noticed its disappearance but I'm afraid it set off the azure of his eyes with a _finesse _which rendered me quite incapable of complaint.

He raised a slender eyebrow in greeting, as was his habit. 'Gregory- what in the world is that you're wearing? You're to change and come away at once…' he cast an inquisitive eye over the contents of my bookshelf. 'I've procured a motor car, a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey- which isn't a wine you've ever tasted, so don't pretend.'

'Where are we going?'I ignored the casual slight. Resigned to and, I'll admit, not displeased by my fate.

'To see a friend…' he flicked through the contents of my wardrobe. 'Indulge me,' he had paused, 'and wear the apple-green shirt.'

And that was all I could get from him.

* * *

Beyond the college gates rested the motor car, as promised; an open, two-seater, shining gloriously in the mid-morning sun.

Mycroft slid, with his customary grace, into the passenger seat. If I'd had to pinpoint a character fault in my friend- and I was more than a little blind to any such flaws at the time- it would have been a slight inclination towards laziness. On this occasion, however, I had no intention of complaining.

The soft, rumbling power of the engine and the feel of the wheel beneath my hands was a welcome delight. At my side Mycroft reclined in his seat, eyes closed, basking in the golden light.

The cathedral bells were striking ten as we left the city, narrowly escaping collision with a group of well-dressed young ladies, an elderly fellow on a bicycle, and a couple of minutes later, a fat tom cat. Mycroft's right eye opened a slither as we swerved for the third time.

'Do mind the car, Gregory. It is the property of an appallingly esteemed gentleman. I should not like to have to return it in bits, should we survive the crash.'

Before long the hustle and bustle of the town disappeared behind us, and we were soon speeding into open country, down the quiet stretch of Otleby Road.

'I could sing,' I laughed, as the green fields raced by.

Mycroft sniffed. 'Please, spare me.' But the corners of his mouth were tugged involuntarily upwards; his smile golden in the quiet glow of the day.

We sought out shade in the midday heat, stopping to rest under a clumsy group of elms, on a green velvet knoll. We ate the strawberries and drank the wine, and then lay down side by side on our backs. Mycroft lit two cigarettes, passing one from his mouth to my own, pale fingers painted pink with berry juice. I closed my eyes and imagined licking them clean, as the sweet scent of tobacco smoke furled around us, and then rose gently into the green lace of the foliage above.

'I should like to stay here forever,' he said. Our fingers brushed together gently amidst the lush flow of the grass.

* * *

This was my third term at Oxford, but I date my time there from my first meeting with Mycroft, which had occurred, quite spontaneously, at the end of the term before. We were in different colleges, and I could quite easily have spent my years there without ever meeting him. As it happened, I remain greatly indebted to the man's poor tolerance of liquor for bringing us so swiftly into acquaintance.

My room in the front quadrangle of the college was one of the worst. It was situated on the ground floor, and in the summer months became unpleasantly stuffy. Unfortunately, amongst my fellow students an open door was often shamelessly interpreted as an invitation, and my room soon became a haunt for a selection of unsavoury characters. One fellow by the name of Anderson was as unshakeable as he was unbearable.

I was reading Law, much to my mother's delight, although I'll admit the course tired and bored me. I spent my first term, and the majority of my second, fervently wishing I were elsewhere. My immediate family had no particular wealth to speak of, and I owed my time at college to a distant uncle whose untimely death had resulted in unexpected funds.

Of course, for the opportunity, I was deeply grateful. For the atmosphere, I cared distinctly less. Oxford in those days was infested with the most unbearable of the upper classes, whose hauteur at first left me reeling. I later learnt my too casual attire (rolled up shirt sleeves, and an open collar) was causing something of an upset. It was apparently accepted that students should dress in a manner befitting to a country house.

I bought an old tweed coat, and a pair of grey flannel trousers, and hoped for the best. Having my own chequebook was a source of some significant excitement.

Retrospectively, it is easy to say, I was not a typical Oxford student. My room was poorly and sparsely decorated, my bookshelf cramped with the commonplace. My tastes in literature tended towards adventure stories, crime novels or science-fiction tales. Although my F. Scott Fitzgerald short story collections stole pride of place, alongside a much loved copy of _The Beautiful and Damned. _

In those early days I found myself cheerfully adopted by a small circle of acquaintances whose company I enjoyed and who, thankfully, did much to ease the transition into the whole business of living at the University.

I think, however, I knew even then, that this was not all Oxford had to offer.

* * *

I knew Mycroft Holmes by sight long before I met him. He was not the most conspicuous man and, whilst attractive in his slim build and smooth features, of no arresting beauty. He merely possessed a certain cool presence which had earned him great regard and set him apart from the affected conceit of our peers. My first real view of him was in the door of a bookshop I frequented but could rarely afford. He left as I was entering, swinging a black umbrella in his hand. He was rarely seen without it. All this, combined with a seemingly endless selection of rather dapper suits, meant he cut quite a handsome figure.

From all I have said so far I am sure you will understand that, when on a smooth spring evening the man's face (slightly flushed) appeared outside my window, it was by no means an unwelcome surprise.


	2. Chapter 2

It was shortly after midnight in early April and I was at my desk, engaged in reading _The Thirty-Nine Steps, _a Buchan novel sent to me by my father. The warmth of the evening had prompted me to throw open my windows. The air outside was infused with the balmy scent of approaching summer and in floated the not uncommon sound of drunken laughter and unsteady steps.

In the distance a chorus of tremulous voices seemed to be engaged in some kind of argument.

The noise prompted me to pause in my reading long enough to glance out of the open window and it was at that moment that the face I knew to be Mycroft's appeared; alive and alight with such brightness as I had not once seen him wear before. He gazed at me with unfocused eyes.

I stared back for a moment, expecting some form of an address. When it did not come I stood up and cleared my throat awkwardly, 'Can I help you?'

He smiled at me hazily, as I approached. 'No, my dear man, please do sit back down.'

Neither one of us moved.

'I'm afraid I find myself feeling most unaccountably disorientated,' he made a clumsy attempt to straighten his collar. His unfailing politeness was somewhat marred by the slight slur of his words.

'The wines were too various.' He continued, anxiously, as if I might hold all the answers to his trouble. 'It was neither the quality nor the quantity that was at fault. It was the combination, you understand. One must know about these things… and that is the truth of the matter.' His eyes brightened inexplicably, and to my horror I noticed he was becoming tearful.

Entirely baffled by the whole situation, and not at all sure of what to say next, I settled for what I hoped was an understanding nod, and an awkward, 'quite so.'

Thankfully, my response seemed to steady him a little, or so I thought. In any case, he seemed to warm to me profoundly. He beamed at me unsteadily through the window, and then, to my genuine astonishment, placed his hands on the sill and began to climb on through.

'I say, what on earth are you doing?'

He dropped onto my floor with the surprising grace of a sleek cat, and rose to shake my hand. 'Mycroft Holmes,' he declared, and for a moment all trace of his drunkenness disappeared and I caught a glimpse of the cool headed man I had seen so many times before. The effect was spoilt when he stumbled suddenly forwards into me.

Before I could quite grasp what was happening, my hands had found his waist to steady him, and I was left wondering exactly what I had done to deserve a six-foot, drunken aristocrat draped over me in the dead of night.

My attempts to return him to his own feet were largely unsuccessful, and I was pondering the propriety of setting him down on the bed when he began mumbling something unintelligible into my suit jacket.

'What's that?' I asked, confused.

He shifted against me, still refusing to take his own weight, and his breath tickled my ear. 'J'ai dit que tu es très beau, mon ange,'* he murmured. I silently cursed my poor French, unable to make out a word of his ramblings.

'Tu n'as pas eu mal quand tu es tombé du ciel?'**

At that moment I was thankfully saved by a knock at the door.

The noise roused Mycroft sufficiently to draw himself up and fall backwards into my desk chair. Upon opening the door I was warmly greeted by his original host, an amiable gentleman of my own year. 'Was it your window?' he asked, a little tipsily. 'I've tried all the other rooms.' He peered round me, gaze alighting on Mycroft, who stared drearily back.

After much muttered resistance, the gentleman, I later learnt he was Anthony White, managed to secure an arm around his shoulders and safely escort Mycroft from my rooms, apologising profusely as they went.

The door was pulled to behind them and I fell quite exhausted to my bed, thoroughly unable to comprehend exactly what had just occurred.

* * *

The next morning I donned my gown, and left my room. The memory of the night before remained freshly imprinted upon my mind, and as I made my way towards the lecture theatre (which I still frequented in those days), I found myself subconsciously on the lookout for him.

It was after eleven by the time I returned to the college. I found my room full of flowers. A veritable cornucopia of them, the scent of which hit me with great force the second I opened the door. My scout Hunt was arranging the last of them, looking almost as bewildered as I felt.

'Hunt, _what _is this?'

'A tall gentleman with an umbrella left them, sir, there's a note for you'

The note was written in green ink on thick, expensive paper. The flowing, cursive script read: _My most sincere apologies; you will undoubtedly have formed a terrible impression of me. Please come for luncheon today, and allow me to give a better one. Mycroft Holmes._

It was typical of him, I thought, to assume I knew where he lived; but, then, I must admit: I _did. _

...

That day was to be beginning of a new epoch in my life.

I went to the luncheon party- for I was not Mycroft's only guest that day- uncertain as to what I would find. It was foreign ground- a world away from the safety net I had built for myself out of simple friends and tiresome acquaintances. But I was in search of an escape, in those days, an entrance into a more exciting world; a world like those I had inhaled from the worn pages of my books.

Mycroft lived in Christ Church, high in the Fields Building. I climbed the stairs in something of a haze, for a short time inexplicably certain that once I reached the top I would stumble upon the sort of enthralling wealth of life which had remained so unhappily concealed from me, secreted amid the grey expanse of the city.

He was alone when I came in, reclined in a plush armchair, absorbed in a book and looking every inch the civilised gentleman I had at first thought him to be.

'I've just finished,' he looked up with a tight smile, setting the book aside and rising to greet me. 'I pride myself on timing.'

He was dressed in a slim fitting white shirt with stripes of pastel blue, a silk tie and a light tan waistcoat. He shook my hand warmly.

'I've finally managed to convince myself that the whole of yesterday evening was a dream,' he ventured, 'please, don't wake me.' He watched me cautiously, and I caught a glimpse of insecurity in the depths of his cool eyes.

He was entrancing; smooth and polished from the reddish wave of his hair to the shining leather of his chestnut wingtips.

His room was panelled in warm wood, lined with shelves of intimidating tomes and decorated with framed drawings. Austere furniture and a large luncheon table dominated the room. I was drawn to the ornate mantle-piece, my eye caught by a photographic portrait depicting a group of gentlemen standing stiffly in the middle of a large room. In the centre, a tall man exuded wealth and power, on his right a younger Mycroft stood upright and solemn, and on the left a young boy with wild dark hair glowered angrily back at me.

'My brother, Sherlock,' Mycroft handed me a sparkling glass of champagne, our fingers brushing, 'He's rather a terror, I'm afraid. It's always a pleasure to get away.'

The party assembled. There were several Etonian freshmen, and a select number of respected older gentlemen whom, I noticed, received the majority of Mycroft's attention. All were mild, elegant and detached. All were inescapably dull. I absorbed myself in the increasingly taxing matter of drinking only as much of the champagne as propriety allowed.

By the time we had moved onto the lobster, a dish wholly new to me, I was thoroughly tired of everyone in the room except Mycroft, whose interest I gathered was in collecting useful contacts. The older gentlemen became increasingly drunk, and increasingly friendly, as time went on. We sat on for some time, sipping Cointreau in the warm room, and by mid-afternoon, I had watched him collect several requests to join prestigious clubs, recommendations for the best tailors in London and an invitation to a ball hosted by the Duchess of Kent.

It was four o'clock before the group dispersed. I rose to go with them, stumbling a little as my eyes remained shamelessly fixed on Mycroft; his eyelashes fluttering in the light streaming through the wide windows. The champagne was, I fear, beginning to tell.

He stopped me with a hand to my chest at the door. 'Have some more Cointreau,' he said.

* * *

_Translations:_

_* 'I said that you are very handsome, my angel.'_

_** 'Did it hurt when you fell from the sky?'_

_Leave me a review, if you've read this far?_


	3. Chapter 3

That day was the beginning of my friendship with Mycroft, and thus it came about, on that summer morning, that I was lying beside him in the shade of the high elms, watching the smoke drift from his lips and up into the high branches.

We soon drove on and as the sun reached its pinnacle in the sky, we came to our destination. First a village of white washed buildings and open green spaces, with a quaint little chapel nestled in its narrow, cobbled streets. A hidden turn in the road revealed a pair of wrought iron grates, and beyond: an entirely new landscape. On either side of the road lay acres upon acres of green, which seemed to stretch out endlessly around us, before reaching up to surround the gleaming stone walls of a great, old house. I stopped the car by a splashing fountain in the front courtyard and the bright sunlight of the day glinted off a hundred icy windows and shone back at us through a thousand droplets of golden water.

Mycroft stepped out of the car. 'Belvoir Estate,' he said, 'this is where my family live'

I remained speechless, rapt in the vision.

He looked at my curiously. 'Don't worry,' he continued, 'you won't have to meet them.'

I recovered enough to step out of the car and join him by the great stone steps. 'I'd like to,' I said.

He sniffed and straightened his collar. 'Well I'm afraid you can't. They're away in London.'

He stood by me for a moment, regarding the house with detachment, as if he were seeing it for the first time through my eyes, and it was not really his home at all.

'This way,' the spell was broken and he took my arm imperiously, leading me around the side of the great building; in through a smaller side door, and through the stone flagged servants quarters- 'I'd like you to meet my old nanny, Mrs Hudson. That's why we're here.' We climbed up through the house: staircase after staircase, along wide corridors and past room after room of crimson decor and mahogany panelling. We finally emerging onto a curved, narrow landing, I glanced around and, from the shape of place, realised we were inside the building's dome.

Mrs Hudson was seated by an open window of a room that had clearly once been a nursery. A handsome rocking horse stood in the corner. Her hands lay upon her lap, a thick book between them. She rose, smiling, as we entered, and Mycroft greeted her with a kiss to her cheek.

'Well,' she peered at me inquisitively, 'this _is_ a surprise.'

I wondered how rarely Mycroft brought friends back with him from Oxford; how often he came back at all.

He introduced us gravely.

'You couldn't have chosen a better time, my dear,' she said, straightening his lapels unnecessarily, 'Sherlock's here for the day. It's been so dull without him. And then they're going on holidays, and the parlour's being fixed up in August and what with you going to see your Father this summer, and the others back in London, it'll be October before we're all settled down again. What young Sherlock sees in London I have never understood, the gardens here are such a sight in summer time-'

'Did you say Sherlock's here?' Mycroft interrupted with a frown.

'Yes, dear, you must have just missed him. He went off in the car not five minutes ago. He'll be back before long.'

Mycroft nodded, looking displeased, 'I'm afraid we may miss him again,' he said.

Mrs Hudson looked at him sharply, 'I should hope not, young man, you've not seem him in so long. He's been bored, and getting into trouble like you wouldn't believe. It will be nice for him to see you,' she smiled up at me, 'and to meet somebody new. Now tell me about Oxford, have you seen any more of that Duchess who took to you?'

Mycroft and the woman talked on. It was a charming room, curved at one end to conform to the shape of the dome. The walls were papered in a pleasant green and the atmosphere seemed warmer than the ghostly chambers we'd previously walked through. The right hand wall was dominated by a carved oak fireplace. On the mantle a strange assortment of objects: fossils, pieces of coral, a small collection of delicate animal bones. Souvenirs brought home from walks and holidays, I supposed.

'Ring the bell, dear,' Mrs Hudson's voice broke through my thoughts, 'we'll have some tea.'

Mycroft shook his head minutely, signalling me back to his side as if I were a straying puppy. 'We must go,' he said.

Mrs Hudson tutted, frowning. 'Sherlock will be unhappy.'

'No, he won't,' Mycroft said to me once we'd left the nursery. 'We must leave promptly, before he gets back.'

'Which are you ashamed of,' I asked him jokingly, 'him, or me?'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at me, 'neither one of you,' he said. 'But Sherlock is tremendously rude. He'd drive you away, you know. I'm afraid he's quite mad, really.'

'All right,' I did my best to suppress my curiosity, 'am I not going to be allowed to see the rest of the house? Where's your room?'

He looked at me shrewdly. 'Why would that interest you?'

'…It doesn't.'

He nodded. 'I will show you father's old laboratory. Most of the house is covered up. We shall save my bedroom for another time.'

And away he swept, down the staircase, looking positively regal. I trailed after.

Through my disorientation I gathered that the 'laboratory' seemed to be located at the very heart of the house; at least we walked down many staircases, and did not see any windows for some time. Once we had reached what I guessed to be the ground floor he led me to a curved wooden door in the wainscoting, smaller than any other I had seen. Beyond it was a narrow spiral staircase and at the bottom, a remarkable sight. The room was huge with a great expanse of flagged stone floor. A marble fireplace stood grandly at the far side, and between it and us rested a strange, twisted maze of glass pipes and tubes upon an oak counter top. The left hand wall consisted entirely of shelves, each holding crystal vials of all different shapes and sizes, carefully labelled and containing liquids of crimson, topaz or emerald. In the corner a number of spindly brass contraptions clicked strangely.

'Well?' he said.

'Good God,' was about all I could manage.

'Yes,' he agreed simply, 'it's all rather extravagant I'm afraid. Father was a chemist. He doesn't live here anymore, but Sherlock makes great use of it.' He sniffed disapprovingly, and then turned to me. 'Speaking of whom, have you seen enough? We must go.'

On the drive we passed a close top Rolls Royce driven by a chauffeur. In the back a vague, boyish figure turned to look round at us as we went by.

'Ah,' Mycroft said dryly, 'we got away just in time.'

* * *

As we left the village the sun slipped behind a large grey cloud. Mycroft turned to me in his seat.

'Stop it,' he said.

'Stop what?'

'You're wondering about my family.'

He was right, unfortunately; I _was_ curious. Mycroft often seemed to have an uncanny ability to know what I was thinking in those days, before he'd become occupied with politics and tiresome men in starched cardboard clothing.

'I'm sorry,' he said, after some time. 'I fear I haven't been terribly pleasant this afternoon... It's the house, you see. It has that effect on me.'

'It's a beautiful house,' I said.

His arm slipped around the back of my headrest, 'Much improved by your presence,' he said.

His mood seemed to lighten the further we drove.

We abandoned the motor-car on the outskirts of the city, and walked back alongside the river; the sun low in the sky and a pleasant breeze against our backs.

'Father lives on the French Riviera,' he told me, abruptly. I got the impression that he felt he owed me something; as if he were forcing himself to open up to me. 'We must visit him together one day. I do believe he'd like you.'

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed or favourited or put this on story alerts. Hope you're enjoying it so far._

_My next chapter is almost ready to go._


	4. Chapter 4

Towards the end of that summer term, I received an unexpected and, as ever, unwelcome visit from Anderson, who appeared in my room just as I was trying to leave it, and insisted on a tediously long chat.

I had in fact been on my way to meet Mycroft for a dinner he was hosting that evening; one arranged to appease the 'appallingly esteemed gentleman' who owned the car we had borrowed, and somehow forgotten to return.

'Really, Gregory,' he had said to me, 'you do make me irresponsible.' As if the whole affair had been entirely my own fault.

Anderson sat himself down in the corner armchair and regarded me reproachfully when I didn't offer him a drink. 'I've been trying to get in touch with you, Lestrade. No-one has seen either hide or hair of you in the last few weeks.'

I sat down heavily.

'It's that Holmes chap, isn't it? I have to say, he's about the worst company a man can find himself in. I hear all too much about him, I really do. He may look very respectable, Lestrade, but he's involved in some questionable circles; a manipulative little bugger, I'm told. You'll get yourself talked about...'

I poured myself a brandy and hoped to high heaven he'd soon shut up. He didn't, of course.

'…He's one of an odd family. His parents live apart, you know, have done since the war,' he helped himself to a drink, 'Of course, they put on quite a façade, everyone thought them _most_ devoted. And then off _he_ went to France with a girl half his age.' He sipped at his brandy, clearly relishing the scandal. 'I had the misfortune to meet this Mycroft's younger brother once. I can't remember his name… something strange, they all are… but, do you know, he was _quite_ insane.'

I forced a smile and contemplated throwing my drink over him.

'I say!' -I wished he wouldn't- 'That's not a Gieves & Hawkes suit you're wearing? How on earth did you afford that on _your_ allowance? _He _didn't buy it for you, did he?'

His face had twisted into a look of horror. I was almost tempted to confirm his suspicions, just to cause him further upset.

'Anderson, don't be a bore. Of course he didn't buy it for me. He's lent it to me for a dinner engagement this evening.'

'Good lord,' Anderson poured himself some more of my brandy, 'I thought it looked long in the sleeves. Well, I wouldn't go on accepting gestures like_ that_, if I were you. You don't know what he might expect from you.'

At this point he leaned forwards conspiratorially, eyes shining and cheeks flushed from drink. I did my best not to shrink back into my chair cushions.

'There are some awful rumours,' he whispered, 'about _his _group. I was speaking to Sal Donovan just the other day and he said they're all sodomites, the lot of them.'

I did my best to look surprised... but I wasn't. From the little time I'd spent amongst Mycroft's friends, if that was what they were, I'd gathered that such dalliances were commonly accepted as routine, even fashionable. Besides, after my own adolescent experiences in London (I'd spent some time working on the docks), I was in no position to condemn them.

At that point Mycroft and I had never spoken on the matter, although I'd formed the general impression he wasn't inexperienced in such affairs. A few years later when he embarked on his damn political career, he used to delight in bringing what he called 'open secrets' home for my consumption. Earl Beauchamp, he told me, had 'a persistent weakness for footmen'. Of Prince George, to whom he introduced me at a costumed ball in '29, he whispered 'no-one_- of either sex_- is safe with _him_ in a taxi'. …But, I digress.

Anderson was looking at me expectantly.

'How shocking,' I said.

He looked most relieved, 'quite so, old chap. Do say you'll stop spending time with him?'

'No.'

'What?'

'Definitely not,' I rose to my feet. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dinner reservation to keep.'

I left him gawping unpleasantly after me, like an oversized carp.

* * *

Looking back, now, after twenty years, there's little I would have done differently. Mycroft was intoxicating; aloof and affectionate in turn: the man exuded power, even then. In a very short time he became a very vital part of my existence. Every day the people I had once surrounded myself with seemed to grow a little duller, seemed to fade into a black and white background which no longer contained me. Sitting in my rooms with Anderson that day, I felt strangely detached. He seemed unreal to me, a cardboard cut-out of a man I once knew.

I was experiencing a first taste of a life unlike any I had ever known, a life rich in small pleasures- silk shirts and liqueurs and cigars- which all the same brought with it a promise of greater things to come. I'd never given much thought to the future, but during that long warm summer it seemed to me that Mycroft held the key.

At the end of the term, I took my first exams; it was necessary to pass, if I were to remain at Oxford, and pass I did...eventually. Having spent too many hours enjoying wine and summer sun, I was forced to forbid Mycroft entry to my rooms and spent a week engaged in frantic study, drinking iced black coffee and pouring over heinously dull texts until late every evening.

He sailed through his own exams, of course, treating them as a temporary nuisance and, to my knowledge, without any study at all.

From what little he told me off his background I learnt that before Eton he had spent much of his early life in Europe: in France, Germany and Italy. He spoke their languages, amongst others, with clipped proficiency. He had once dined with Freud, played cards with Proust, and associated with the greatest politicians of the age. At times we all seemed like children in comparison to him.

At most times, but not always, for at that age the stir of emotions beneath his outer calm still often threatened to break through. When he spoke of his childhood, it summoned images of huge, empty rooms: a young boy sitting alone with a chessboard, growing smart but sly.

He could be cruel, too, in that insect-maiming manner of the very young. His influence gave him opportunity for manipulation, and he would often take it. Every so often all the cold detachment that comes from an emotionally disengaged childhood would gather as storm clouds in the depths of his eyes, and he would shut me out, in the cold.

All at once, the term had passed fully and the summer holidays were upon us. It was with great regret that I parted from Mycroft at Oxford station. The journey back to my small house and small family in London seemed long and arduous; and my thoughts, as I watched the grey scenery flash by, were of our last morning together.

It was a Sunday. Bells were ringing and I'd stopped for a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee at a tea-shop in the centre of town. Through the window I watched church-goers scurry by in their finest hats and coats. A small group of undergraduates stood smoking and talking under an archway across the street, as reluctant as I, it seemed, to go their separate ways. I walked along the river bank, taking a winding route, on my way to Mycroft's rooms.

He was out when I arrived and I busied myself studying the photographs and invitations on his mantelpiece, and browsing the contents of the bookshelf. There was little there that appealed to me, most of the titles were foreign and beyond my comprehension. Eventually I pulled out a copy of _Great Expectations_ and settled down to read until his return.

'I've been to mass,' he said, crinkling his nose a little, 'I hadn't been all term, and Mummy will ask. Have you waited long? It did go on rather. I kept thinking of all the things I'd rather be doing. I began to feel like Sherlock, in fact, and that won't do at all.'

He disappeared momentarily and I heard the rustle of clothes in the other room.

'Is that Dickens you're reading? You're terribly predictable, Gregory.' He reappeared buttoning up a fresh waistcoat, and watching me sedately.

'We're not all fluent in five languages, Mycroft.'

'All the same, it doesn't hurt to make an effort…' he finished his buttons and stepped closer, 'help me with my cuffs?'

I stood and did as he asked, breathing in the smell of his cologne: rich and subtle at the same time. By the time I had finished with the second cuff he had gone very quiet, and was watching me with narrowed eyes.

'I'm afraid I'm going to miss you this summer,' he said quietly, turning away to check his tie in the gilded mirror.

We hovered silently for a moment, looking at one another; unwilling to set out on the walk to the station. At the door I passed him his hat and coat.

'Thank you,' he lent forward, and then paused, and then kissed me on the cheek. Pulling back swiftly he donned his fedora and swept out of the door.

…

The station when we reached it, was bustling with colour and noise; the train that waited to whisk me away sat huffing smoke in the background.

He took my arm on the way to the station, clinging to me a little, as if he might float away if he let go.

We watched each other for a long moment, him chewing at his lips, a young child started bawling nearby. 'Well,' he said, addressing a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder, 'you'd better get on board.'

'Will I see you this summer?'

He looked a little surprised at my forwardness, but nodded, 'I would like it if you did.'

The surroundings weren't conducive to long goodbyes so we shook hands, lingering only slightly, and then parted ways, having promised to write.

I boarded the train and watched his green fedora bob away through the crowd.

* * *

_I know this is moving slowly, is that good or bad? I have big plans for the next few chapters though. _

_(The information on gay men of the 1920s was (quite) thoroughly researched! Mycroft's words on Earl Beauchamp and Prince George are borrowed from Martin Pugh's 'We Danced All Night- a social history of Britain between the wars'.)_

_(I'm afraid I also stole a couple of phrases, including 'in that insect-maiming manner of the very young', directly from Waugh: too good not to use.)_


End file.
